The sixth severed foot was discovered still snug inside its home. Its leg bones sprouted up from a grimy black shoe, and if the woman who discovered it squinted her eyes just right, she could almost imagine that it was a black pot sprouting delicate shoots of algae-covered bamboo, but for the smell of salty ocean water and blood. She imagined that if she placed it back in the water, or planted it beneath the sand, the bones would sprout and grow a person: perhaps the original owner of the foot, perhaps some new being, a Foot Person, with toenails for eyes and lint stuck in his teeth. The fifth foot had been lonely for some time, and this new addition, crusted with saltwater build up, would make a fine mate for it. Perhaps it was sheer luck that the police now had in their possession three lefts and three rights, but it seemed like fate to see them all lined up in the evidence locker, on the forensic table, as if they would come to life in pairs and skip happily out of the building, six small patters leaving drops of the ocean behind them, their bleached bones flying tattered flesh flags in the wind, marching out of the building in search of whatever separated them.